


Circuity

by thesaddestboner



Series: Author's Favorites [1]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Banter, Detroit Tigers, Idiot manchildren, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-20
Updated: 2007-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 17:02:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Rookie assholes and backup catchers!  Oh my!</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Circuity

**Author's Note:**

> This took two years to finish. Yes, you heard me. 
> 
> Shoutout to [**americanleaguer**](http://americanleaguer.livejournal.com/) for looking this over, offering advice and such, and generally kicking ass.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

Vance Wilson has seen this before, young studs with a ceiling somewhere in the fucking stratosphere, saw it in New York where everyone is a potential superstar until they burn out. Seeing it here in Detroit too (even in a place like Detroit) with this Verlander kid. Kid has this cool, cocky confidence about him, walks up to a string of pretty blonde girls leaning over the fence and plays with their hair, touches the backs of wrists and tugs on jersey sleeves, tilts his head to the side and gives them his biggest, brightest, whitest grin.

Vance just snorts and resumes pinetarring his bat, navy cap pulled down low over his eyes. _Dumb kid_.

"Hey, catcher." 

Vance looks up, and it's the _kid_ looming over him, hands on his hips. The sun catches in his eyes, and Vance blinks it away. "Whaddaya want, kid?" he asks, bristling, setting down his cloth and bat. 

"I needta get some work in," the damnable kid says, punching a pristine white baseball into his tan glove. The ball is so fresh, so white that even when it's obscured in Verlander's mitt, Vance can see teal squiggles of stitching against his lids when he closes his eyes. "Pudge's bein' flakey. An' you caught me last year."

Vance groans and pulls himself to his feet, brushing his hands off on his thighs, gives the kid a _look_ that could peel paint. "First off, don't call me _catcher_. I got a name. Use it." The kid looks put upon, probably not used to being scolded, or for that matter, probably not used to not being pampered. "Second off, I'm due for batting practice."

"Not like _that'll_ help," the kid quips, flashing a wicked smile, the same smile he uses on all the girls. 

"In that case, you can wait until Pudge's ready to go. I got work to do." Vance bends over and picks up his bat and cloth, resumes his task. 

The kid lets out a petulant sigh. "C'mon, I really needta work on my change. You _gotta_."

"What are you, four? I don't _gotta_ do anything for you," Vance mutters, staring intently at his bat, measuring the application of pinetar with his thick, callused hands.

The kid crouches down until he's eye-level with Vance and grabs hold of his bat. Vance bristles. "C'mon, catcher. Please? Pretty please?" He flashes the groupie smile, and Vance can't help but feel a vague sense of disgust sweep over him. 

"Hands off the bat, _rookie_ ," Vance snaps, thinking, _Hey, I can play your game too_. 

The kid tilts his head, still beaming the smile that makes all the groupies' knees go weak. Vance is unamused, mostly that the kid would try that on him, but also because the kid won't let go of his fucking bat. "I'll only let you go on one condition," the kid says.

"Oh, and what's that?" Vance sneers.

The kid grins, probably thinks he's hooked Vance in like all the giggling groupies, who are still leaning over the fence, calling his name, flashing a little skin to regain his attention. "You do my bullpen session with me." 

"How'd I know that was coming?" Vance rolls his eyes and smirks, fingers locked down over the kid's, still trying to twist the bat out of his grip. 

"You got a sixth sense? Maybe it'll come in handy at the – "

"Don't even start," Vance cuts in, squeezing a little harder, just to let the cocky bastard know who's the veteran and who's the rookie. "I'll catch your stupid bullpen session. Now let go of my fucking bat."

Verlander releases his grip on the bat and Vance isn't ready for it, though he should've been. His feet slip out from under him and he falls flat on his back, all the air punched out of his lungs. The kid looks down at him, still smirking. "See ya in five, catcher." He tips the bill of his cap at Vance and walks away.

"You okay?" The third baseman, Inge, trots over and offers a hand to Vance, but he pushes himself to his feet, brushing blades of green grass off the front of his jersey.

"I'm fine. Fuckin' kid, thinks he's got the world on a string," he mutters. "I'd love to take him down a notch."

"Don't let him get to you," Inge says, cracking his gum in his teeth. "He's just a dumb kid. He'll get brought down, believe you me. If it ain't you, it'll be the game that does it."

The kid picks up one of those long, black rubber exercise bands and works his arms over his head, still making eyes at the groupies and winking. When he raises his arms a little higher over his head, his shirt pulls out of his belt, showing off a flash of pale white stomach. The girls scream even louder.

Vance punches his fist into his catcher's mitt and gives Inge a wink. "It'll be me."

-

The kid is good and loose by the time Vance makes his way out to the bullpen, flipping the ball around in his hands while Vance takes his sweet time, making him wait.

Verlander is on him the second he steps into the pen, in his face, hands on his hips and his chest puffed. He probably thinks he looks menacing. As menacing as a kitten with its tail poofed up, maybe. Vance smirks to himself. 

"What took ya so long, catcher? I said five. It's been ten." Verlander pokes Vance in the chest with his glove. "Lost a little in the legs, huh?"

Vance brushes the kid away like he's nothing more than a mosquito; if he were a mosquito, however, Vance would be able to squash him and be done with it. "Get out of my fucking face." Vance drops to a knee and opens his duffel, fishes out his glove and his mask, damn kid still hovering over him.

"Someone get up on the wrong side of the bed?" He grins.

Vance looks up at the kid and smiles. "Wouldn't _you_ like to know." He turns back to his duffel and zips it up.

"What's that supposed to mean?" the kid asks, toeing Vance's bag, giving it a kick.

"Whatever you think it means, rook." Vance gets up and slides his hand into his glove, flexing it, before pulling his mask down over his face. The fucking kid is still standing in front of him, looking at him like a puppy with his head tilted to one side.

"Well, we gonna do this or not?" The kid flips the ball out of his glove and it hits Vance in the chest, but neither of them move to pick it up.

"Fine. Get off my nuts." Vance shoulders the kid out of the way and trots to the plate, scraping dirt off of it with his cleat. He gets down in his catcher's crouch and rests his arms across his knees. "You ready to go or not, kid?"

Verlander pulls his cap down low over his eyes and toes the rubber, before getting into his stance. 

The skinny little fuck sends a stinging fastball whistling into Vance's mitt, so hard and fast he almost expects to see big, cartoony trails of smoke rise from his glove. His fingers get jammed, and Vance shakes off his glove and flexes them out, pulling his face into a grimace.

"The fuck was that? I thought you wanted to work on your goddamn change." Vance curses and spits in the dirt, hand still stinging.

"That was a little wake-up call," the kid says with a grin. 

Vance has a half-formed notion to jump up and strangle the kid to death, but is able to stop himself in time; Skip probably wouldn't be all that thrilled, and no doubt the groupies would be pissed. Vance just slips his hand back into his mitt and returns behind the plate.

Vance tugs on the front of his mask and spits in the dirt. The kid watches him, glove resting on a cocked hip. "Quit your yapping and give me the offspeed shit."

Verlander gets back onto the rubber and nudges it with the toe of his cleat before raising his glove to his face. Vance looks back; he can only see Verlander's eyes, the rest of his face hidden behind the glove, golden right hand reaching in for the ball. The kid flaps the glove a bit, trying to fit his fingers in the appropriate grip and Vance makes a mental note to talk to him about that later.

Verlander's voice cuts through Vance's thoughts like a hot knife through butter. "All right. Here it comes." He goes into his motion, arms and legs winging, and lets it fly.

The hard fastball is Verlander's money pitch. When it's on, it's nearly unhittable, snapping perfectly into the waiting catcher's mitt like it's on a line. The offspeed pitch is a perfect compliment to the kind of heater Verlander posseses, and it's Verlander's weakest, the one he has the least control over, the one he can’t command. Vance is secretly pleased there's actually something out there that Verlander hasn’t mastered yet. 

The pitch looks like a fastball coming out of Verlander's hand, same arm motion, same arm slot, same release point. Vance anticipates the trajectory of the pitch, willing it with his mind into his waiting glove, lips moving silently.

The ball drops in perfectly, like God himself had placed it there. Vance glances down at his mitt and then up at the kid, eyebrows quirking, grudgingly impressed. "What's to work on?" he asks, digging the ball out of his mitt and flipping it out to the bullpen mound. "Looks fine to me."

Verlander stoops to pick up the ball and tucks it into his glove, lifting his head and giving Vance a look. "You really think so?" the kid asks, and Vance blinks, surprised to hear the kid sound so unsure of himself.

Vance nods. "Yeah. I mean, it's no Trevor Hoffman change, but with that fastball," Vance says, shaking his head in disbelief that a pitch like that could come out of this skinny stringbean of a kid. "You have a chance to twirl a no-hitter every time you step onto the rubber."

Verlander breaks into a big grin at the compliment, flipping the ball in his hands. "Yeah," he echoes, "I think I like the sound of that." He pauses, before looking Vance straight in the eyes, saying as seriously as he can with a stupid grin on his face, "If I ever throw a no-hitter, I want you to be the one who catches it."

Vance kneels in the dirt and raises his mask, rubbing a palm down the front of his nylon chest protector. "Why me? What about Pudge?" he asks, genuinely surprised. Verlander's openness right then almost makes Vance feel bad for generally disliking him.

Verlander just shrugs and steps back onto the rubber, wedging the ball in his glove. "Nevermind," he says, bending forward at the waist, tucking his right arm behind his back. "That was cool. Let's do it again." 

-

The next evening they go out, all of them pretty much, except for Maroth, because his wife showed up that afternoon with their kids and their dog, and everyone knows what _that_ means.

"What's the W stand for in Michael W. Maroth? Whipped?" Verlander teases, when the group of them are separating and filtering into limos, and Maroth is standing there, seeing everyone off.

Maroth sniffs. "That's not funny, Justin," but he has that serene at-one-with-God smile on his face, and Vance wonders why Maroth doesn't get angry, before remembering that it's _Maroth_ , turn the other cheek and all that good stuff. 

"But it's true," the kid needles, still grinning. "Brooke says jump and you say 'how high?' "

Maroth only rolls his eyes good-naturedly, nudging Verlander toward the limo. "Go enjoy yourself. Don't get _too_ trashed though." He walks over to Vance and clips him on the shoulder. "Look out for the kid, huh?"

"Why me?" Vance pouts. He knows he's whining now, but he can't help himself.

" 'Cause he likes you, Vance." Maroth shoulders Vance toward the limo too. "He wouldn't bug you so much if he didn't."

Vance rolls his eyes. "If you like the goddamn kid so much, _you_ take him under your wing."

"I'm not really the right person for him to be taking after, anyway," Maroth says with a tiny smile, pushing Vance toward the limo. "Soft-tosser."

"Who knows? Maybe the kid could pick up a thing or two," Vance grumbles, finally relenting and retreating to the limo that's waiting to take himself, the fucking kid, and a couple of the bullpen guys to a nightclub. _Me and a limo full of rookie pitchers. Just great._ "Tell Brookie I said hi." Maroth just snorts softly and shuts the door.

Verlander digs a razor-thin cell phone out of his pocket and flips it open, holding it out to one of the other pitchers, another rookie whose name Vance hasn't bothered to remember. "I just got this baby today," he says, proudly. "I already programmed a buncha numbers on it."

"That's pretty sweet," the other kid says, poking at Verlander's phone like he's never seen one before. "Lotsa girls?"

Verlander's grin grows even wider. "You know it." The two dumb kids give each other high fives, and Vance digs into the minibar, looking for something strong to make the evening go faster.

"How many so far?" the other kid asks, a conspiratorial glow in the corner of his eyes, and Vance has the sneaking suspicion that the kid isn't talking about phone numbers anymore. 

Verlander pretends to think hard, unable to not smirk, before flipping his cell phone shut and tucking it back in his pocket. "Oh, I dunno. A couple here and there. I had one the other night I really liked. Her name was Shaunda or Shandra or something."

"Oh, I remember her. Big blonde? Hanging over the fence in short shorts?" the third pitcher asks, and the two of them slap high fives. "I had her too."

Verlander glances at Vance and smirks. "What about you? Had any _fun_ so far?"

Vance pauses, airliner bottle of alcohol poised above his lips, and gives the skinny little shit a narrow glare. "Fun? What kinda fun?"

"You know what I mean," the kid says. The three of them look at Vance with hungry smiles, and Vance can't help but feel a little put off by them, damn kids.

"No, I don't. You'll have to elaborate." Vance rests his hand on his knee and turns his wedding band with his thumb, giving the kid a smirk.

"Hey, what's a little secret between friends?" The cocky shit grins at him and winks, and Vance fights back the urge to clock him right then and there. That sure wouldn't go over well with Skip, the backup catcher beating up the rookie phenom. Vance banishes the violent thoughts to the Siberia of his subconscious where, he hopes, they'll wither and die. 

"I'm not your friend, rookie," Vance reminds him, and the cocky smirk falters just a little bit before clicking back in place.

"Well, why don't we fix that?" The kid grins at Vance again, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes this time. 

Vance raises an eyebrow. "How do you intend on doing that, rook?"

The kid raises his cell phone and smiles. "I got connections, catcher. I could find you a girl."

"I don't need you to be my wingman, rook, thanks." Vance rolls his eyes and brings the airliner bottle of liquor to his lips. "I can get my own chicks."

"Maybe so, maybe so. I bet I could get you hotter ones, though." 

"Sorry, not interested." Vance grunts and takes a pull of the cheap liquor, lets it burn down his throat, and decides that if battery acid had a taste, this would be it.

"Okay, guys then." Verlander pulls the bottle of alcohol out of Vance's hand and takes a sip. "God, this stuff is _awful_. It tastes like paint thinner."

Vance smirks, grabbing the bottle back. "Actually, it tastes like battery acid."

One of the other rookies, a big, thick kid with a mean face and a gray ink tattoo snaking up his left arm, tosses Vance a slanted, lizard-eyed gaze. "So, what's it like catchin' behind Piazza? He really gay like all them people say?"

Vance chokes on his mouthful of nasty liquor. " _What_?"

The kid grins. "So's Piazza _el maricón_ for real?" He slings an arm over the back of the seat, drumming his fingertips on Verlander's shoulder. 

Vance scowls and coughs, pressing his fingertips to his throat, working out the thickness. "Piazza is happily married. To a woman."

"That ain't really answering my question, now is it?" The kid smirks, all teeth. 

Vance smiles. "No, I guess not." He finishes off the mini-bottle of liquor and rolls down the window, flicking it out just to hear it shatter on the asphalt at 90 miles an hour.

"You shouldn't litter." Verlander leans back and crosses his legs like a girl, resting his elbow across the back of the seat. He tilts his head, scratching his fingertips over his chin. Vance doesn't like the way Verlander's looking at him right now, with his shining eyes and his creepy-as-all-fuck Mona Lisa smile.

"Some other poor fuck'll clean it up. What do I care?" Vance sits back and crosses his arms over his chest, watches the rookies, just _waiting_ for the other shoe to drop.

The Mexican kid moves his fingers to his chest, curling them around a heavy, solid gold cross. "You been around for, like, _ever_ , dude. You don't expect me to believe you ain't seen nothin' . . . outta the ordinary?" He grins widely, probably thinks he looks friendly, but really just looks ready to rip Vance's head off.

"Even if I did, I wouldn't be telling _you_." Vance smiles sweetly, and the kid's shoulders flag. "Guy's gotta have _some_ secrets."

Verlander leans on the Mexican kid's shoulder. "It's just the four of us. We promise we won't tell." Justin glances at the other kids. "Right fellas?" The other two nod their assent, and Verlander looks back at Vance, smirking.

Vance grumbles under his breath and rubs a hand over his face. "Not telling you goddamn kids a goddamn thing," he mutters, pinching his thumb and index finger over the bridge of his nose, goddamn shitty liquor making his eyes water.

Verlander leans forward and puts his hand on Vance's knee, big and warm, leaves it there. Almost like he's daring Vance to knock his hand away. "You know," Verlander says, and his tone's different, soft, almost solicitous, "I'm _very_ good at keepin' secrets."

Vance lowers his hand and looks the kid straight in the eyes. "Get your hand off my knee," Vance says.

The kid doesn't move a muscle, still leaning way too goddamn close, still with his hand on Vance's knee, and is the fucking kid's hand creeping up his thigh or is Vance just imagining that? "Say please," Verlander says sweetly.

Vance glances at the Mexican kid and the Texan, and both of them are watching with bright eager eyes, matching smirks cracking across their broad, tan faces. "I am not saying a goddamn thing." Vance leans forward, inches away from the kid's face, leveling him a challenging glare, _just try and fuck with me, you skinny punk, just you fucking_ try _me_.

Verlander's hand is on his thigh now, squeezing, and he leans closer. The kid moves his hand a little to the right and his grin grows even wider. "You gonna say please now?"

Vance reaches down, shoehorns his hand over the kid's, and for a split second they lock gazes, the kid's eyes snapping with some sort of dark uncoiled energy. Vance gives Verlander's hand a hard squeeze before moving it back to his knee, shaking his head, "Don't."

The Mexican kid laughs like this is the funniest fucking thing he's ever seen, howling, "Jeeze, Justin, never seen ya get shot down before," slapping a big hand on his knee.

Verlander leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. "There's a first time for everything," he says, cocking a smirk Vance's way. "I'm used to getting what I want."

"Well, this ain't college anymore, kid. This's the big leagues." Vance levels Verlander a stony glare, but the kid remains unfazed.

Verlander just grins even wider. "And that's what I am."

Vance sits back, looks at him, and it almost feels like something's passed between them, an unspoken challenge. Vance smirks to himself. _You're on._

-

The four of them hit the first nightclub they spot, the big Texan, Tata, getting dragged off by a grabby blonde the second they set foot inside the club, and the big Mexican, Zumaya, finding himself a secluded booth with a trashy looking brunette in a top better suited as a headband. 

Leaving behind Vance and the goddamn kid, of course.

The kid orders up drinks, fruity tropical drinks with tiny neon colored umbrellas, and passes one off to Vance. Vance accepts his drink warily, and gives the kid a _look_ of pure disdain.

"The fuck is this?" he asks, pulling out the bright pink and neon green umbrellas.

The kid shrugs. "She made 'em special for me, 'cause I'm gonna be a star," he says, jerking his thumb at the bartender.

Vance takes a sip and makes a face. Too much fruit and not enough alcohol. "It's alright." He smiles and winks at the bartender, and she giggles, pressing a hand to her mouth.

Verlander rolls his eyes. "Why's she like _you_? _I'm_ the one who's gonna be a star."

" _I'm_ the one who isn't an irredeemable asshole. Chicks like that in a guy." Vance gives her a tiny wave.

" 'm not," Verlander pouts, sipping his drink with an injured sniff.

Vance glances over the kid's way and busts out his brightest grin. "This round's on me, rook."

Verlander looks at him, stunned, eyes as big as saucers. He taps the pitching callus on his right hand against his glass. "What? Why? Ain't like I can't afford it."

Vance rolls his eyes. "I know that, golden boy. Still. Drinks're on me."

"Well, next round's _def'nitely_ on me," Verlander announces, taking a sip of his fruity tropical drink. 

Vance just rolls his eyes. "If that's how you want it," he chirps, pleasantly.

Verlander just shakes his head and turns back to his drink.

-

After dumping Tata and Zumaya in their respective hotel rooms, Verlander slumps heavily into Vance, grabbing onto Vance's left elbow, the bad one. Vance sucks back a noise and gives the kid a look.

"You okay over there?" he asks, nudging the kid into standing position against the wall.

"Yeah, 'm fine," Verlander mutters, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "Just felt woozy all of a sudden."

Vance laughs, looping his arms around Verlander's shoulders, guiding him to his room. "Woozy? You only had, what, eight, lightweight," he teases, fishing Verlander's room key out of his front pocket.

Verlander lazily pushes his hips against Vance's hand, like some sort of reptilian reflex, and Vance rolls his eyes at the pitiful effort. He withdraws his hand and uses the key to unlock the door. Verlander glances around, a pleasant, blissed-out expression on his face.

"Where're we?" he slurs.

"Mars." Vance dumps Verlander unceremoniously on his bed and smirks down at him.

Verlander sinks into the soft, cushiony mattress with a groan. "Mm, too soft and gooshy t'be Mars. Jupiter maybe," he murmurs.

Vance looks down at him. "Jupiter's made of gas, genius," he says, with a slight smile.

"I failed astronomy," Verlander mumbles, "fuck astronomy."

"You actually _failed_ at something? I can't wait to tell the rest of the guys," Vance grins, flopping on the bed next to Verlander.

"Fuck you, old man." Verlander raises his head to give Vance what he probably assumes is a don't-fucking-fuck-with-me-motherfucker glare, but just manages not to look sober. Verlander points his index finger unsteadily in Vance's face, and Vance whacks his hand away.

"Stop it," he mutters.

Verlander grins and wiggles his fingers inches away from Vance's face. "And what're ya gonna do if I don't wanna?"

Vance nips at the tips of Verlander's fingers. "I'll bite your fingers off. Then you'll have to retire."

Verlander flinches his hand away before rolling his eyes. "I'll just start throwin' with my left hand then. Switch pitcher." He inches his hand forward again.

Vance reaches out and curls his fingers around Verlander's left wrist. "I'll get this hand next then," he says, bringing Verlander's palm to his lips, "and I'll bite off these fingers too, and then you'll have to pitch with your feet or somethin'."

Verlander slants Vance a lazy half-lidded look. " 'm not sure I like that idea," he murmurs, letting Vance keep hold of his wrist. "Balancing on one leg ain't my – my forté."

" 's not?" Vance asks, drawing Verlander's index finger between his teeth, biting gently. "What _is_ your forté then, exactly?"

Verlander sucks in a breath and his eyes shutter closed. "Mm. Dunno, slipped my mind," he says, shifting against Vance comfortably. 

Vance raises his eyebrows and lets go of the kid's finger. "So I see." He drops the kid's arm at his side, crescent-shaped indentations on his index finger, right above his pitcher's callus.

Verlander struggles to sit up before giving up and falling back onto the mattress. "What, why'd you stop?"

"You're drunk," Vance says, moving away from Verlander on the bed, Verlander's hands trying to follow him. Vance pushes Verlander's insistent, groping hands away.

"Yeah, I am and so're you. Your point being - ?" Verlander curves his hand over Vance's thigh and squeezes warmly.

Vance looks down at the hand on his thigh. "Hands to yourself, kid. Didn't they teach you that in preschool?"

Verlander laughs, snaking his hand up Vance's thigh, eyes twinkling again for the first time since the limo ride. "Fuck you, you were, like, in _college_ when I was in preschool, old man."

"Fuck _you_ , rook," Vance snaps, glancing back down at Verlander's hand. "Not that fuckin' old."

"You sure? I'm pretty sure I saw you signin' autos in hieroglyphs just the other day," Verlander says with a grin.

"Real cute." Vance moves Verlander's hand off his thigh with an amused snort.

"Always good to hear," Verlander says, scooting closer to Vance on the bed, brushing innocently across the front of Vance's jeans. Verlander's grin spreads even wider across his face. "Mm, feels like you wanna, too." 

The kid giggles and Vance rolls his eyes again. "Okay. I'm going back to my room now. Need anything before I leave?" Vance slips out from under Verlander's hand and gets to his feet, brushing his palms off on his blue jeaned thighs.

"Feels more like _you_ do," Verlander snickers, collapsing back onto the bed and covering his mouth with his cupped hands.

"Sorry kid, not interested," Vance grates out between clenched teeth. He leans over Verlander, hovering, and pushes Verlander's mess of dark hair out of his eyes. "Get some sleep."

Verlander smirks again and hooks his still-perforated index finger in Vance's beltloop. "Not tired," arching up and winding a skinny arm around Vance's neck, pulling Vance down hard on top of him. Verlander noses against Vance's jawline, Vance trying to jerk his head away, murmuring, "I _always_ get what I want."

"Why don't you go fuck with those other kids, Tata and Zumaya," Vance says, resting a hand lightly on Verlander's side.

Verlander rolls on top and rocks his hips forward hard. Vance's eyes flutter shut. "They're kids. I'm not." He slides a hand down Vance's chest, snaking it into the front his jeans.

"That Tata kid, he's older'n you," Vance points out, hand still on Verlander's side. He's very proud of his focus right now. How he's not focusing on Verlander's hand squirrelling down the front of his pants.

"Oh, ain't like I didn't try," Verlander breathes, rocking against Vance slowly, "but Jordan and Joel ain't like that. You, I could tell."

"Tell what?"

"That you'd fuck me."

"You're out of your fucking mind." Vance flips the kid onto his back, bracing himself against the mattress, looks down at him.

Verlander squirms beneath him, cheeks flushed. "I could just tell with you." Kid slips his hand back into the waistband of Vance's jeans and gives him a tug. "I know you want to."

"Like I said, you're out of your fucking mind." Vance, however, makes no attempt to pull himself out of the kid's reach.

"You want to fuck me." Verlander writhes some more, his thigh pressing against Vance's, long arms looping around Vance's neck. Something hard and firm presses against Vance's thigh and he bites back an inappropriate laugh; Verlander is right about one thing - he's definitely not a kid. At least not where it really counts.

Vance looks at him with his flushed cheeks and his glazed eyes, and leans down, resting his mouth near Verlander's, whispering, "Say please."

Verlander licks at his lips and pulls the corner of his mouth into a half-smirk. "Pretty please? With a . . . cherry on top?"

Vance studies the kid for a few long seconds before pushing himself off and maneuvering his hips away from Verlander's. "Not tonight, kid." He tugs on the front of his shirt and tucks it back into his belt.

"You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me," Verlander says, scrambling up in bed. "You can't just work a guy all up and then pull the ol' bait-and-switch. It's, it's _unethical_."

"Unethical, big word." Vance smirks at him, heading for the door. "See you tomorrow, kid," he says, with a sweet smile and a little wave. "Sweet dreams."

-

"How'd your night out on the town with the rooks go?" Inge lopes up to Vance during warmups the next morning, effervescent, as usual. He reaches into his mouth and pulls out a long thick rope of pink gum, winding it around his index finger, and Vance wonders if it's the same piece of gum he was working on the day before.

"It went all right. That Verlander kid is a pain in the ass," Vance says, stretching his arms high above his head. His warmup jacket slips up, revealing a flash of skin, and Inge reaches out to swat him on the stomach.

"Aw, he wouldn't bug you so much if he didn't think you liked it," Inge teases, cracking his teeth on his gum.

Vance pauses and hikes an eyebrow at Inge, questioningly. "Why would he think I _liked_ it?" He tugs his warmup down and bats Inge's hand away.

" 'cause you say stuff back," Inge nods, like he's the authority on annoying rookies and their equally annoying habits. Which is not entirely surprising, given that it's Inge. "You don't, like, ignore him or anything. If you ignored him, I bet you he'd just give up."

"That might just make him more intent on driving me up a fucking wall," Vance grouses.

"If you, like, don't give him anything to go on, he'll give up eventually," Inge says, pulling his arm from behind his back to reveal a baseball. He flips the ball to Vance. "Kinda like a bonfire. Stop putting logs on the flames and the fire'll die out."

Vance catches the ball in the chest and it ricochets away, rolling to a stop in the thick grass, at - of fucking course - Verlander's feet. Vance rolls his eyes Inge's way, but the third baseman only holds up his hands and backs away, wearing a little smirk.

"How's it goin', fellas?" Verlander asks, flashing his winningest grin at Vance and Inge, tipping his cap at the two of them.

Inge raises his eyebrows at Vance and gives Verlander a lopsided grin. "Can't complain, can't complain. How 'bout you, rook? Can minor league Spring Training even compare?"

"The weather's nicer, the grass is greener - and the chicks are hotter," Verlander grins, glancing briefly at Vance before returning his gaze back to Inge. Inge doesn't miss the look, however, and nudges Vance in the side with his elbow.

Inge smirks. "They're pros up here," he chirps, turning toward Vance. "I'm gonna go take some drills. I'll catch up with ya later." They give each other slaps on the back and then Inge skips off, leaving Vance and Verlander behind. Vance has half a mind to strangle Inge for bailing on him, but manages to refrain from giving in to the violent urges.

"So," Verlander says, kicking his heel in the grass, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. "So. Last night - ?"

Vance snaps his gaze on Verlander, scrutinizes him for signs of hangover, still-actually-drunkness, _something_. As far as he can tell, Verlander is completely sober. And bringing this up in broad daylight, within earshot of their teammates. "What about it?"

"I was really wasted." Verlander looks at him again, hooking his thumbs in his beltloops. "I have no idea what the hell I said or did, so - "

Vance rolls his eyes. "So don't mention it?" he finishes for him.

Verlander tries to shrug it off like he doesn't care, but there's something flickering behind his eyes, something that he can't quite tamp down. Vance watches, curious. "Actually, I was wondering," he says, sotto voce, "if you wanted to - get together again tonight."

Vance raises his eyebrows at the kid. "And do what?" he asks.

Verlander leans over and drops his arm loosely about Vance's shoulders, like they've been the best of friends for a million years. "Finish what we started last night," Verlander murmurs, breath skittering across the back of Vance's neck.

Vance barely suppresses a shudder and shrugs out from under Verlander's arm. "You're really going to bring that shit up here?" he asks, crossing his arms over his chest, shaking his head at the utter ballsiness of the damn kid.

"Nobody's listening," Verlander says, as if that makes it all okay.

Vance studies him for a few long moments before leaning in close, discreetly brushing his hand against the front of Verlander's pants. "Say please." Verlander stares at him, big-eyed, jaw going slack. Vance just gives him a smirk and pushes past him for the batting cages.

-

Vance is reclining in his bed, watching some SportsCenter when there's a sharp rap on his door and the sound of his doorknob being fumbled with. He rolls his eyes and crawls out of bed to let Verlander in.

"What, did you think the door would magically open all by itself?" Vance asks with a smirk.

Verlander heaves a case of beer over his shoulder and slips in past Vance. "I figured you'd, like, leave the door open for me or something," he says, hefting the case of beer on the unoccupied bed. "Also, I brought us a thirty-pack of Bud."

"What the fuck are we going to do with a thirty-pack?" Vance asks, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Verlander gives Vance a _look_ and raises his eyebrows. "Uh. We're going to drink it. _Duh_." Verlander rips open the case and grabs two beers, tossing one to Vance that catches him in the chest and thunks to the floor, rolling on its side in the carpet.

Vance bends over and picks it up, cracking it open and taking a deep pull. He feels a hand curve over the roundness of his ass and straightens up. "What do you think you're doing?" he asks.

Verlander slips his hand away and places it back around his beer can. He shrugs. "I dunno. What do you usually do in this kinda situation?"

"I don't usually invite rookie assholes up to my hotel room to fuck around," Vance points out, taking a sip of his beer.

Verlander's eyes spark. "I am _not_ an asshole," he says, huffy, pushing his chest out. 

"Long as you believe that, kid." Vance takes a sip of his beer and climbs into bed, settling back against the pillows. Verlander takes that as an invitation to join him and does so, joining Vance in bed. 

Verlander straddles him at the waist, bringing his hands up into Vance's hair. Verlander leans in close to him, lips a breath away from his, Vance holding himself very still.

"Not this again." Vance squeezes softly onto the back of Verlander's knee anyway.

"Thought this was why you invited me up." Verlander purrs against the line of Vance's jaw, tracing wet fingertips down the side of his neck.

Vance pinches the back of Verlander's thigh, feeling the kid flinch under his hand. "No, I invited you up because I genuinely enjoy your company." Vance can't bite back a snort.

"I'm kinda thinkin' you might be a glutton for punishment, old man." Verlander slides his hand away from Vance's jaw, worrying his fingertips at the collar of Vance's faded denim shirt. He pops a button, pauses, licking at the corner of his mouth.

"And why would you say that?" Vance lets Verlander move on to the next button.

"You like it." Verlander moves on to the third button on Vance's shirt, long fingers flying deftly, a sort of artistry to his fluid movements that Vance, as a catcher and a baseball guy, first and foremost, can appreciate.

Vance raises his eyebrows at Verlander. "I can't fucking stand you. You're like a disease without a cure."

Verlander laughs, sliding his hands inside Vance's shirt and pushing it off his shoulders. "You don't even sound like you believe that," he says, smirking at Vance, his eyes shining.

Vance wriggles underneath him, in a struggle to remove his shirt. "Not only are you the bane of my miserable existence," Vance quips, tossing the shirt aside, "you're also wearing too many clothes."

Verlander grins and tugs his t-shirt over his head. He discards it, leaning in and nosing at Vance's earlobe. "Now that's something I can get behind," he murmurs, lips brushing against the shell of Vance's ear.

Vance pauses briefly at the implications, turning his cheek so that Verlander ends up with a mouthful of his hair. "If you're a good boy, _maybe_." Vance nudges Verlander off of him with a gentle elbow to the side.

Verlander props his chin on his fist, watching Vance with half-lidded eyes. He leans over and Vance can feel the kid's mouth open on the back of his neck. Vance closes his eyes hard and curls a hand in the comforter. The kid trips the tip of his tongue down the notches of Vance's spine, and something warm and kinetic uncoils deep in Vance's stomach. Verlander moves lower, and Vance shivers hard, pressing into the mattress.

"You like that?" Verlander murmurs across the small of Vance's back.

"Mm. Yeah." Vance unclenches his fist in the comforter and flexes his fingers, working the circulation back into his hand. " 's nice."

Vance feels Verlander's mouth curve into a smile against the small of his back. Verlander licks a trail over the most sensitive places on Vance's back, reaching up to squeeze his hip.

Vance can feel parts of his mind ebb away the lower Verlander goes, like beach sand being carried out to sea on the tide. The thrumming warmth in his belly starts to slowly unravel, and his entire body hums with electricity, from the ends of his fingers to the tips of his toes. Verlander's hand is big and warm on him, pitcher's callus rasping over delicate parts of his anatomy. Vance bites back a sharp noise, jerking his hips against Verlander's hand, knotting a fist in the bedsheets. 

Verlander pauses to grin against the curve of Vance's ass, before probing deeper. Vance tremors beneath him, slippery with sweat, the backs of his thighs aching with the strain, every inch of his body vibrating with this electricity. Verlander opens his hand on Vance's belly, pressing him back, against his tongue, and then tiny pinpricks of white explode against the backs of his eyelids, swallowing his vision until he's whiteblind and has no idea if his eyes are open or closed. 

The only sounds he can make out are Verlander's hot, damp breath rough against the back of his thigh and the heavy thud of his own heartbeat.

Eventually his vision clears and Verlander is hovering over him. He's only vaguely aware of Verlander's hand low on his chest, swiping at the mess, the warm feeling funneling out of his insides. He can feel his heartbeat start to even out, settle into an easy rhythm.

Verlander leans down, palm flattened over Vance's heart, and kisses him. Vance tastes something salty on his lips and realizes belatedly that Verlander must have licked his hand clean.

"Y'alright?" Verlander asks against Vance's mouth.

Vance manages a nod without really moving at all. "What about you?" he asks, even though the answer is obvious; the answer is currently pressing hard against his bare thigh.

"Just _look_ at me the right way and I'm done for," Verlander quips.

"Now where's the fun in that?" Vance rubs his thigh against Verlander's not-so-little problem and the kid shudders involuntarily, squinching his eyes shut.

"You suck," he manages.

"Only when asked nicely." Vance slides down the length of Verlander's body, gripping him lightly at the waist, and licks slowly at the juncture where Verlander's hip meets his thigh. Vance pauses, propping his chin on the kid's thigh. "Try any funny stuff and I _will_ bite it off. No word of a lie."

"Right," Verlander says, sounding thready, eyes still shut tightly.

Vance inches Verlander's legs apart with his hand and crawls between them, palming at his erection. Verlander flinches, a full body shudder, and Vance grins, sliding his hand away, down his thigh. 

"Fuck," Verlander exhales, shaking underneath Vance's hands and especially his mouth, "fuck." Verlander reaches for Vance's hand, tries to put it back in place, but Vance pulls his hand out of Verlander's grip.

"Easy now." Vance traces a fingernail down the underside of Verlander's dick and grins when the kid squeezes his eyes shut, a deep guttural sound clawing its way out of his throat. Vance gives the kid a firm squeeze, Verlander arching his back, pushing his hips against Vance's hand.

Verlander clutches at Vance's wrist before sliding his hand over Vance's, stroking with him. He tips his head back against the pillows and lets out a soft sigh, rocking his hips slowly against Vance.

Vance leans down and swipes his tongue across the head of Verlander's dick. The kid groans again, jerking his hand in the comforter, eyes still squeezed shut. Vance grins at that. Verlander grips him by the shoulder, head tipped all the way back onto the pillow, his throat exposed. Vance reaches up to stroke his thumb over Verlander's adam's apple before curling it back around the kid’s dick. Verlander can't help but suck back a hitched breath.

"You like that?" Vance breathes against Verlander. The tiny hairs on Verlander's thighs stand up, as his skin puckers into goosebumps. Verlander shivers, and Vance can't tell if it's from his breath on Verlander's skin or his hand around the kid's dick. _Probably a little bit of both_ , Vance thinks, unable to stifle a smirk.

"Fuck, yeah," Verlander sighs. He reaches between his legs to join his hand with Vance's, twining their fingers. Vance rolls his eyes but lets him, taking extra care to scrape his calluses. " _Jesus_." Verlander jerks his hand over Vance's.

Vance smirks, pleased with Verlander’s reaction. "You haven't been playing long enough to have calluses like _mine_ ," he teases.

Verlander's eyes roll back and his eyelids shutter. The kid is clearly past listening to what Vance is saying, or caring about anything beyond the hand on his dick. His breaths are coming faster now, in short bursts, heavy, damp pockets of air. He claws a hand in Vance's hair and twists, pulls; Vance reaches up with his free hand to bat Verlander's groping one away.

"I meant what I said, about the funny stuff," Vance grunts, but he's smiling. He tightens his grip and strokes his hand faster, gauging Verlander's reactions, studying the arch of his back, the tension in his muscles, the kid's teeth clamped in his bottom lip. 

Verlander thrusts his hips up into Vance's hand, dark hair feathery and clinging to his forehead. Sweat collects at the base of Verlander's throat and Vance sprawls over him, pauses to lick it up. Verlander cuts his nails into the small of Vance's back, pulls him back up and forces their mouths together, kisses him bruisingly hard.

Vance jerks his wrist sharply and Verlander bites down hard enough to draw blood.

-

"Hey, catcher."

Vance lets his unstrapped, navy shinguard drop to the grass and looks up, straight into the sun. Verlander hovers over him, hands on his hips, the neon-bright Florida sun shimmering behind him like a nimbus. "Hey, asshole."

Verlander forges on, unfazed. "I needta work on my curve." Verlander flaps his leather mitt in Vance's face. "And Pudge is bein' a flake." The kid pauses to sigh and roll his eyes in Pudge's direction. Pudge is waving his arms animatedly. Vance squints, can make out a wasp or a bee circling overhead, laughs quietly. " _Again_."

Vance pushes himself to his feet and his other shinguard falls to the ground with a soft plasticy thunk. "Can't you go bug Rabelo or something? I'm supposed to be working with Tata and Zumaya." Vance gestures to the big Texan and the big Mexican, both of whom are looking on very impatiently, arms crossed over their chests, identical looks of consternation etched deep into their broad, tan faces.

Verlander rolls his eyes. "I _really_ needta work on my curve, catcher. And you're better'n Rabs is at blocking balls." A slight pause. The corner of Verlander's mouth quirks up in a blink-and-you'll-miss-it smirk. "In the dirt."

Vance sighs exasperatedly.

" _Pleeease_ ," Verlander begs, clasping his hands in prayer over his chest, bouncing on the heels of his feet, "pretty please? With a cherry on top?" His eyes flash with mischief. Or maybe it's just specks of sunlight. But knowing Verlander, it's more likely door number one. Vance smiles a little. Verlander leans in close and drops his voice to a low whisper only Vance can hear. "I'll make it well worth your while, catcher."

Vance glances back at Tata and Zumaya. Zumaya raises a tattooed arm and flicks him off, but he's smiling. Vance turns back to Verlander, tucking his plastic shinguards under his arm. "All right, let's go. We can work on the fucking curve."

Verlander loops an arm about Vance's shoulders and grins exuberantly, tugging him along to the bullpen. "I think this is the start of a beautiful relationship."

Vance rolls his eyes and smiles at the kid, the cut on his lip stinging pleasantly. He slides a hand up between Verlander's shoulder blades and rubs, nudging the padded bullpen gate open with his foot. "Close but no cigar." Vance guides Verlander into the 'pen and shuts the gate behind them.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


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